


Terms and Conditions

by deianaera



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Canon Compliant, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 12:14:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2811611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deianaera/pseuds/deianaera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus and Minerva have a standing bet on the Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match. This year, Severus hopes to change the prize to something more suitable for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Terms and Conditions

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to P who nobly hunts down my commas, clauses, and misused hyphens. Any errors that you find are mine, not hers.

**Terms and Conditions**

It was late at night, well after curfew, when Severus knocked lightly on Minerva's door, two vials of potion held lightly in his hand.

"Come in, Severus," Minvera replied, her light brogue coloring her voice.

Severus pushed opened the heavy door, just wide enough to admit his slender form, before closing it securely behind him. He blinked and paused inside the threshold, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom that Minerva preferred in her quarters. The scent of cat made his nostrils twitch, and he hurried to sit in the open chair across from his counterpart. Once seated, he opened and tossed back the contents of one of the vials. Blessed numbing relief cascaded through his system as the odor of cat - and the inevitable sneezing, itching, and weeping eyes that accompanied it - faded away.

He set the other vial on the table across from Minerva. "I despise meeting in your quarters. Surely you know this by now?"

Minerva laughed and sipped from the slim margin of liquor in her glass. "Of course. But why worry about such things when you are such a competent brewer?"

"Is that why you keep me around?" he replied, a bitter twist to his lips visible in the firelight.

"Don't be so melodramatic, Severus. You know full well that you're a skilled potioneer and, when you can be bothered, a fine teacher," Minerva replied as she waved her wand to summon him a glass of his own.

"Hmmm," Severus replied, catching the glass Minerva conjured for him and taking a sip. "I suppose I'll accept that. It still doesn't explain why I have to climb up here to set the terms of our bet."

"That's because I outrank you, lad," Minerva replied, finishing her glass as punctuation.

"For now," Severus replied with a murmur.

"Is that what you'll wager this year," he asked in a normal voice. "Your seniority?"

"Don't be daft. Of course not. Standard wager: one bottle and bragging rights," Minerva countered swiftly.

"Sadly, I simply don't drink enough to consume your forfeit every year without your help. No, I think I would like new terms this year," Severus replied silkily.

"Such as," Minerva asked nervously.

"Something," Severus leaned forward in his chair, "more public."

"Public?" Minerva echoed.

"Indeed. Much as I enjoy a small portion of your annual forfeit and lording Slytherin's superiority over Gryffindor amongst the staff, I'm afraid it's not enough anymore," Severus said mildly.

"Slytherin's lost the last two years to Gryffindor. You sure you want to raise the stakes?"

Severus' lips peeled back in a feral snarl and his nostrils flared; he looked akin to a rabid rat. A moment later and the instinctive expression of loathing for anything related to Harry Potter faded and Severus replied, "Oh, I'm certain."

Minerva eyes narrowed. "What game are you playing at, Severus?"

"Quidditch, of course, Minerva."

"No, I don't think so. I don't know what you're up to, but you are as slippery as any your house ever produced. If you want to change the terms of our wager, you know something I don't."

"I'm wounded you think so little of me, Minerva. You've mentored me since the day I returned to teach here. Surely you don't believe that I would try to manipulate and deceive you?"

Minerva snorted and refilled her glass. "Now I know you're up to something. Give over. Why do you want to change the terms of our wager?"

Severus tossed back the remainder of his glass and held out the empty for a refill, which she provided. "Potter, of course. When Gryffindor loses – and they will – I want Potter to be humiliated."

Minerva stared at him for a long moment before she snorted. "Not even you are that petty, Severus, and I don't know why you would try to convince me you are. I _know_ you."

Severus' lips attempted a smile. "I could never fool you. No, I'm confident that with an experienced team and the best equipment Slytherin will prevail."

Minerva glared at him, an effect lost to the dim, flickering firelight. "Very well, I believe it's your turn to propose the terms."

"As I said, something public," Severus countered.

"Not without something specific in mind. Are you talking about a proclamation, a costume, or something mildly embarrassing?"

"Yes, Minerva. I want you to snog a picture of Lockhart in the middle of supper in the Great Hall when my house wins."

"Not for a match I won't. But to see you proclaim your love for that overdressed fool would be amusing," Minerva replied with a wide smile. She finished her drink and waved her wand to pour another, topping off Severus' glass along the way. The two professors shared a smile born of matching contempt for Lockhart before continuing.

"Why should we decide now?" Minerva asked. "Why not simply declare a forfeit owed to the head of the winning team's house?"

"We tried that my second year here. Your 'grandmother' mysteriously came down with Banshee Flux, and you left to care for her for six weeks. When you returned, you declared that you had no time to pay the debt and fobbed me off with a bottle of Scotch, which you mostly drank at the end of the term."

"Nana McGonagall did have Banshee Flux, which at her age could have been deadly," Minerva muttered.

"I'm sure she did. But that's why we've had the standard bet since. Which I no longer wish to agree to. The terms simply do not favor me."

Minerva waved her glass, empty once more at Severus. "Fair enough, but, besides a change in terms and unspecified public humiliation for the loser, what _do_ you want?"

Severus took a moment to refill his glass and hers before answering her. "I think a public declaration, in the Great Hall, at supper, enumerating the superiority of the winning team and their house by the loser would do well for me."

Minerva took a healthy measure of her drink. "You are confident, aren't you?"

"Of course."

Minerva finished her drink and refilled her glass once more. "Well, that will do for you in the outrageous circumstance that Slytherin actually wins. But I don't think you're capable of giving praise when it's due to a Gryffindor."

Severus sipped his drink. "You're probably right. Shall I simply provide you with a bottle of your favorite Scotch should the impossible occur?"

"That'll do for me," Minerva replied with a feline smile. "You should have another glass before you go. You paid for it, after all."

"Last year's forfeit? I think I will," Severus replied.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Severus' robe snapped and crackled in his wake as he strode down the corridor and into the infirmary where he found Poppy tending his Seeker. She was putting the finishing touches on the bandages swathing his forearm when he approached. A single fiery glare convinced her to be elsewhere. As she bustled away, he stared down at the injured boy.

"What happened, Mr. Malfoy?"

The blonde boy's head looked up at him, his eyes wide and glassy with a potion dulling the pain in his arm.

"It, it was Care of Magical Creatures with that overgrown oaf, Hagrid," he sniveled.

Severus bit back the urge to sigh and reprimand the boy for his disrespectful address. It would do no good and simply earn him an uncomfortable discussion with the child's father.  
"I'm aware of your class schedule, Mr. Malfoy. What happened in the class?"

"He was showing us hippogriffs and when I approached one how he told us, it attacked me and clawed my arm. It hurt and burned and bled. Pansy and Blaise wanted to take me straight to Madam Pomfrey, but that lumbering clod insisted he bring me instead."

Severus blanched. "Your arm, boy?"

He nodded. "Very well. You will remain in the infirmary tonight. I will discuss your care with Madam Pomfrey."

Draco nodded in response and reclined on the bed. Severus watched the boy close his eyes and relax into drugged sleep before he stalked over to the mediwitch, who had been just out of his line of sight, ostensibly folding linens. He stared down his long nose at her with his arms crossed across his chest, waiting silently.

After a moment, she squirmed, huffed and tossed the linens she had been pretending to fold on their shelf before facing Severus. "Oh, Severus, there's no need to look down your beak at me like that. The boy will be fine in a week or two. I've seen much worse from Professor Kettleburn's classes. Why I remember seven or eight years ago, half his class came in with burns off a salamander. The way the boy was carrying on, you’d have thought he was dying."

"One to two weeks, Poppy?" Severus growled.

"Why yes. The damage to his arm was fairly extensive. Hippogriffs have wickedly sharp talons and young Mr. Malfoy's arm was slashed to the bone in three places. I've healed the cuts, ensured that no infection will set in, but that kind of muscular damage requires time to fully heal."

"The match is next week," Severus said quietly.

Madam Pomfrey glanced over her shoulder at a calendar hanging on a wall. The Saturday after next was colored green and red. "Oh, so it is. Versus Gryffindor, too."

"I must go. Keep the boy overnight; inform me when he is to be released back to his classes."

"That was the plan, Severus. Go on to classes; the boy will be fine. I'll most likely send him back to his room in the morning."

Severus nodded and left the Infirmary slightly slower than he left it. He had to owl Lucius and let him know what befell his son as well as figure out how to get the boy ready to play in time for the match.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Watching Draco milk his injury for every advantage over the next week amused Severus to no end, especially when he was able to dragoon Potter and his Weasley sidekick into laboring on the boy's behalf. Despite his theatrics, significant injury to the boy's arm remained; he would not be able to play the upcoming match on Saturday.

That was a problem. According to Flint, no one else was prepared to substitute for Malfoy as Seeker on the team and they couldn't be ready on such notice. After reprimanding the captain for such poor foresight and planning, Severus took some time to consider how to deal with this dilemma.

He knew he could just forfeit the match, but losing to Minerva on such terms left a sour taste in his mouth. Not to mention that doing that would condemn his house to losing the Quidditch Cup for the year and most likely the House Cup as well. After seeing the Headmaster steal that prize from his charges two years running, he would not concede the game so early in the year.

Severus was trying to figure out how best to broach changing the match schedule when a tiny knock sounded on his chamber door. His lips turned up at the corners for a brief moment. Filius wanted to talk to him.

"Enter," Severus called and the heavy wood door guarding his chamber glided open, admitting his diminutive colleague.

"Ah, Severus, so glad I could catch you in private," Filius began as he climbed into the guest chair across from Severus. He took a moment to settle into the cushioned seat before continuing. "I was hoping to discuss Slytherin's chances in the upcoming match against Gryffindor. I've seen poor Mr. Malfoy's arm is still bothering him, and I've not heard anything about a reserve Seeker for your house team. Tell me, do you plan to forfeit?"

Severus smothered the urge to grin. Filius was terrible at manipulating people; he couldn't seem to stop himself from rushing into the meat of the issue. Instead, he answered, "That's a grave question, Filius. You're right, we don't have a reserve Seeker, and Draco cannot possibly recover from his injuries in time. I do wish there was a way to avoid forfeiting. It would hand Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup, practically on a platter and virtually guarantee they took the house cup as well."

Filius' eyes brightened, and he agreed enthusiastically. "Those were just my thoughts, Severus. Why, I was discussing the issue with Pomona before coming down to visit you, and she and I agreed that, while none of us would want to ensure Gryffindor lost the Quidditch Cup or House Cup this year, we would want to make sure that everyone had a fair chance at it."

Severus nodded and bit the inside of his cheek to ensure his expression remained properly sour. "I quite agree."

"Oh, I knew you would, Severus. So, what I proposed is to switch the Quidditch schedule round a bit this year so your Seeker has some time to heal."

"Who would play this coming weekend then?" Severus asked, his face carefully blank.

"Pomona says her team is quite ready," Filius replied. "And, of course Gryffindor is already planning to play. I will simply swap the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match for the Gryffindor-Slytherin match. How does that sound, Severus?"

Severus thought for a moment about the planned schedule. If Slytherin wasn't playing Gryffindor this weekend, their first match would not be for more than a month. Draco would have time to fully recover. His bet with Minerva would have to wait for the end of the year.

"That sounds perfect to me," Severus replied. "Have you spoken to Minerva yet?"

"Well, no," Filius admitted. "To be honest, Pomona and I thought you’d be the harder to persuade."

"If you don't mind, I would like to discuss this with Minerva myself. It is, after all, being done for my team and her house that is making the adjustments. I think I should be the one to make this request."

"Oh, wonderful! I'll tell Pomona you are quite on board with this!" Filius slid down to the floor, preparing to leave. "Do let us know what Minerva says. We'll have to tell the teams of the schedule change as soon as possible."

"I will. Thank you, Filius, for thinking of me," Severus replied, escorting him to the door.

"Not a problem. Good night, Severus." Filius replied before leaving the chamber.

Severus gave himself permission to smile, frightening one of his first years on their way to the common room. He was going to talk to Minerva.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Minerva was waiting for him, it seemed, in the staff room. She was sitting at the common table grading essays when he arrived. Pomona was there as well, perusing a book on North African flora. With one raised eyebrow, she quickly packed up and left the two of them alone, only a saucy wink betraying she knew what was coming.

Severus sat across form Minerva and steepled his fingers, waiting for her to look up from her student's essay and acknowledge him. He knew this had to be handled carefully, or else she would get wind that rescheduling the Quidditch match was in his favor, not hers. So, he waited as Minerva slashed with crimson ink offending responses and scribbled some commentary in the margins until she was done and set the marked up parchment aside. Finally, she looked up.

"I wondered when I would see you, Severus," she said mildly.

"I am, like you, often found in my classroom or patrolling the halls. I can, like you, also be found in the Great Hall at mealtimes."

"Don't be daft. I've seen Malfoy playacting this last week, same as you. I suspected he would be ready to claim he was too injured to play this Saturday. And I know you don't have a reserve team. Come to save us all time and forfeit?"

"Now you're being daft. Why would I forfeit? I've come to propose a small scheduling change. As you said, my Seeker is nursing an injury obtained at the hands of Hagrid and his ill-considered teachings. Why not postpone the match for a week or two to allow Mr. Malfoy to be able to play. You wouldn't want to win under such shoddy conditions, would you?"

"I'll take a win any way I can get it, Severus. And your forfeit would be a nice touch. It would take Slytherin out of the Cup competition completely."

Severus sighed and spread his hands. "True. Very well, Minerva. What can I do to convince you to reschedule the match?"

Minerva lips curled in a feline smirk. "I think a touch of public humiliation would do nicely. Say, a paean of praise to that oaf Lockhart's best qualities - no less than three verses - when your team loses the match. In addition to the bottle of Scotch, of course."

Severus sneered. "Really? Such a juvenile thing to ask for."

"Ah, but you'll hate every minute of it and I, I will be endlessly amused. You want to reschedule the match? That's the terms. When Slytherin loses - whenever we play - you have to praise Lockhart."

"And, in return," Severus said carefully, "you agree to reschedule to Slytherin-Gryffindor match to another weekend when my Seeker is able to play."

"Yes," Minerva confirmed.

Severus did not smile, simply shook Minerva's hand to seal the bargain. He rose from the table and began to walk out of the room. Pausing at the door, he said over his shoulder, "Pomona said her team will be willing to play this weekend. We'll simply swap with the matches around. Have a good evening, Minerva."

He could hear her sputtering in fury as the door closed behind him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Severus couldn't help but whistle the Sunday after the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match. It had been a beautiful thing to witness. Not only had Gryffindor lost, but that brat Potter's broom had been utterly destroyed by the Whomping Willow. It would be nearly impossible for the boy to replace it during the term. And Draco was finally recovered from his injury. It was shaping up to be a good season for Quidditch.

His good mood was, of course, destroyed by Monday and teaching, but his confidence during the season was kept high as Ravenclaw destroyed Hufflepuff in the next match. Even the advent of Christmas along with the ridiculous decorations adoring the halls and Filius' annual attempt to charm the armor to sing carols couldn’t quite dint his optimism.

Christmas dinner was Albus' traditionally informal and absurd mealtime, with professors forced to break bread with students. A simple glower convinced a second year student to take a seat anywhere other than the one next to him, and he was able to enjoy the meal in peace. All in all, it had been a satisfactory day until Minerva rapped on his door after supper.

"Severus? Please open the door. I need to consult with you at once," Minerva said through the door.

With a sigh, Severus opened the door. There stood Minerva, a broom in her hand. She swept past him, leaving him to close the door in her wake.

"Thank you, Severus, for seeing me. I'm afraid I am in need of your services," she said as she held the broom up for his inspection. Severus took it from her gingerly, feeling the fine grain of the wood beneath his palm, admiring the balance of the twigs in the tail. The small plaque proclaiming it a Firebolt startled him, and he nearly dropped the fine broom.

"Minerva, this is a Firebolt!" he exclaimed.

"I know," she sighed and sat down in his guest chair. "Potter received that today as a gift with no card."

"Potter," Severus snarled, his grip tightening to the point of pain on the wooden shaft. OF course that spoiled brat would receive a hideously expensive gift like this.

"Severus!" Minerva's voice cracked, breaking his anger before it could build too high. "I need you help to examine the broom for any hexes, jinxes, or even poisons. It's possible that this came from someone who means the boy harm, like Sirius Black."

He couldn't stop the expression of disgust from crossing his features. "Black gave this to Potter," he hissed.

Minerva got up and gently removed the broom from his grip. "It's possible. I mean, who on earth would give the boy such a broom?"

"Have you considered that he bought it for himself?" Severus sneered. "The boy has flouted rules since the day he came here; it would not surprise me in the least that he found a way to purchase such a broom right under our noses. And how better to get away with such deceit that proclaiming it a 'Christmas gift'?"

Minerva stared at him for a moment. "You truly hate the boy, don't you, Severus?" she asked quietly.

"He is a spoiled, cosseted brat who does not deserve the largess he has received at the hands of those who think his actions as a puling infant are worthy of reverence. Good people died for him to live. Seeing the person he's become, I think it an incredibly poor trade."

Minerva rose from the chair, her expression shining with disappointment. "I am truly sorry you feel that way, Severus. I will consult with Filius. I'm sorry to have bothered you."  
She closed the door behind her quietly. Severus got up and got a drink. His Christmas was terrible, as per normal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The start of the Spring term did little to improve Severus' mood. Not even his Slytherins beating Filius' Ravenclaws could make him feel pleasure. The staff was simply too consumed with examining Potter's Firebolt for curses and hexes. Even a brief mention of the broom was enough to roil his stomach and send him out to deduct points from the nearest pack of students. His only small comfort was finding new hexes and curses for Filius and Minerva to check the broom for. A brief mention of a Blood-Boiling or Entrail-Expelling Curse would send Filius down the hall for the library to research this latest possible threat.  
If Potter had to have a Firebolt, it would be the most stripped-down version of it possible, spell-wise.

Still, his fun had to end eventually. When he went to Filius to suggest an Eyeball Erasing Hex on the broom, Filius informed him that the broom was being returned to Potter. "On the eve of the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw match too!" he squeaked.

Deep in thought, Severus wandered back down to his dungeons. On that broom, Potter would be spectacular; anyone would be. But, if he could be distracted, a broom like the Firebolt could work against him. Quickly, he strode to the Slytherin common room.

"Sanguis," he murmured, opening the portal. He stepped through, and activity in the common room came to a halt. The oddly rhythmic pulse of the light from the lake competed with the dim firelight to cast shadows in the common room. Couches, chairs, and lounges in deep sea colors were scattered forming conversations nooks around the room. Here and there, thick old rugs covered the stone floor, allowing younger or less favored students who failed to claim and hold a seat on the furniture a place to be in the common room. As he glanced around, observing his charges, Severus noted a few tried conspicuously to hide things behind their backs or under cloaks. He made a note to discuss those offenders' actions with the house Prefects; such obviousness should be dealt with.

He scanned the common room until he found Marcus Flint holding court on a couch in the shadow of the fireplace. "Mr. Flint," Severus said, his voice low and clipped.  
Marcus jumped up from the couch. "Sir?"

"My office, please. I have a small matter to discuss with you regarding your team," Severus said. He walked out of the portal, not pausing to let his eyes adjust for the relatively bright light of the hall and walked to his office. Flint followed him and, true to form, preferred to stand instead of sitting in the deeply uncomfortable chair in his office.

Once the door closed and Severus was seated comfortably, Marcus, said, "Sir? You wished to discuss the team with me?"

"It's somewhat more delicate, Mr. Flint. I assume I can trust your discretion?" Severus asked smoothly.

Flint straightened and nearly clicked his heels in his efforts to appear alert. "Of course, Professor."

"As I am sure you are aware, Slytherin is narrowly in the lead for the Cup right now. After the last couple of years of blatant favoritism by the Headmaster, I would like to ensure that your team earns its rightful victory," Severus said, a shared look of disdain crossing their face at the memory of the Headmaster snatching the House Cup from them two years ago.

"Sir, we've been practicing daily to ensure that we are in peak condition," Marcus said.

"I'm aware of your practice schedule, Mr. Flint. After all, I am the one who convinced Madam Hooch to give your team your allotted time on the pitch. No, Mr. Flint, I have something a bit more... holistic in mind."

"Something holy, sir?" Flint asked, with a confused wrinkle on his brow. Severus bit back a sigh. Marcus was a bright as any Flint he'd ever met. He would have to be somewhat more explicit in his desires.

"Listen closely, Mr. Flint. This is what I would like you to do..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gryffindor's victory of Ravenclaw was not unexpected, even with the added distraction of Slytherin pretending to be Dementors to scare Potter. Still, even Severus had to admit he was grudgingly impressed with the brat's ability to generate even a shade of a Patronus at his age. Fortunately, Mr. Flint understood how to keep his mouth shut regarding the origin of the idea to pretend to be Dementors and he, in turn, found ways to reward the team to make up the points Dumbledore subtracted from the house for the prank. Pity it hadn't worked as expected, but Severus understood that he couldn't have it all.

Yet, the boy's play on his Firebolt was skillful and he had to admit, if only to himself and only when he was positive he was alone, that he was a bit nervous about Slytherin's chances in their match against Gryffindor. He brooded over angles to help his chances as he took advantage of the quiet in the castle due to a Hogsmeade weekend.

He was sitting in his office, savaging Mr. Weasley's efforts to describe the interaction of Horned Slugs with crushed nettles in a simple Babbling Beverage, when the door burst open.

"Sir! Sir!" Draco cried, his voice panicky and his hair crusted with mud. Behind him, wheezing with the exertion, were his faithful retainers, Crabbe and Goyle, no honorific required. "What is it, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Potter. Potter's head. Shrieking Shack," Draco panted.

"Mr. Malfoy, take a deep breath," Severus said, as he transfigured a scrap of paper into a glass and filled it with water. "Here, take a sip of this, then try again."

Draco struggled to regain his breath, sipping water once he was able to breathe. He handed back the glass to his professor. "Thank you, sir," he said in a more calm voice.

"Now, Mr. Malfoy, what is it you were saying about Potter?"

"I saw his head, sir! At the Shrieking Shack!"

"Us too!" chimed in Goyle. Crabbe nodded dumbly.

"Begin at the beginning, Mr. Malfoy," Severus said, leaning forward eagerly. "And leave out no detail."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After his discussion with the werewolf about that wretched, insulting piece of parchment he found in Potter's pocket, Severus was incensed. He wanted that boy punished once and for all for his antics. Fuming, he stormed up to the Headmaster's office, and nearly shouted the password at the gargoyle, "Cockroach Clusters." He bounded up the stairs the moment he had the clearance and into Albus' office.

"Albus," he said, biting back harsh words.

"I suspect, Severus, that you are here to discuss Harry's suspected antics today," Albus said. "Please, have a seat."

Severus sat and looked at Albus. "You know already about his escapade in Hogsmeade, I presume."

"Yes. Remus was up here earlier, telling me what he suspected occurred," Albus said mildly.

"Suspected, Albus? If Potter's head was in Hogsmeade, then his entire body was there. We all _know_ the boy has an invisibility cloak. He knows the elaborate security measures we've undertaken this year to keep him safe – Dementors on the grounds of Hogwarts and patrolling Hogsmeade, extra security at Gryffindor's common room because Black's already attacked him once. If that werewolf –"

"Severus," Albus broke in warningly.

"If Lupin," Severus corrected with a snarl, "thinks that there's a suspicion that Potter wasn't in Hogsmeade, then there is your proof right there that he is working with Black. Those two were as thick as thieves as students and such a dark creature–"

"Severus!" Albus roared, cutting off his tirade.

Knowing he'd gone too far, Severus cursed himself for losing his temper, for choosing to speak to Albus when he was still fuming from his confrontation with Lupin and that damned piece of parchment Potter had in his pockets.

"Severus," Albus said quietly. "I owe you no explanation for my decisions, but I will tell you this: Remus Lupin is not now, nor has he ever been, a threat to you. I assure you, I have taken steps to ensure that Harry will not be able to travel out of the bounds of this school again without my knowledge and consent. Since there is no proof that he was in Hogsmeade, that will be the end of the discussion on this. Is that clear?"

Bile climbed in Severus' throat. "Clear," he choked out before turning on his heel and leaving the Headmaster's office as quickly as he had arrived.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Slytherin's victory over Hufflepuff did little to mollify Severus' temper of Potter's ability to weasel out of punishment for his antics. One day, that laxity was going to get someone killed. Severus just hoped it would not be him. Meanwhile, he was nervous going into the final match of the year with Gryffindor. His house was up two hundred points in the Quidditch Cup; if Potter could be prevented from catching the Snitch, their victory should be assured. He knew his charges were doing everything short of outright assault to hobble Potter ahead of the match. For his part, he turned a blind eye to their actions, but it wasn't enough. He wanted a keener edge in this matchup.

He planned his visit carefully. Rolanda could always be found in the equipment room just off the pitch after supper, cleaning the equipment from the teams' practices. The night before the match, he rapped on the door.

"Come in!" Rolanda called. He opened the door, finding the flying instructor straddling the bench in the small room, polishing one of the school brooms.

"Ah, Severus!" Rolanda said with a laugh. "Pull up a broom."

"Thank you," he murmured, taking another broom and rag. Dipping it in the commercial polish open on the table, he joined Rolanda in cleaning the broom.

"So, come here to try and weasel some advantage in the match against Gryffindor this weekend?" she asked with a chuckle. With a practiced twist, she fished the broom she was working on and moved to the next, examining the tail twigs for any that were in need to repair.

"Yes," he replied.

"Not a chance in hell," she replied. "I want Slytherin to win as much as any witch of the house, but I won't cheat, not even for you."

Severus sighed and continued to polish the broom. "Will you at least…"

"No, Severus. I will referee this match the same I do all of them – fair and impartial. I could lose my job if anyone thought I rigged a match in favor of a house. You know that!"

"Very well, Rolanda," Severus murmured. He knew it was a long shot, but he had to try. To make up for daring to ask, he helped her clear the remaining brooms before returning to his quarters for the night. He was honestly out of ideas that he could get away with to gain an advantage in the match. He briefly considered poisoning the brat, but decided that Albus would know it was him and hold him accountable. Pity, a prolonged illness would probably help Potter build character, he thought before going to sleep.

The next day dawned clear and bright: a perfect day for Quidditch. Severus eschewed food in favor of tea, drinking cup after cup of the strong, bitter brew as he looked over the team. His Slytherins were behaving with confidence bordering on arrogance, as though victory in the match, and the Quidditch Cup, were assured, with the actual playing a formality. Harry Potter, he was pleased to note was too nervous to eat and appeared to be quite tired. Most of all, Minerva's frown as she looked at the brat was reassuring. Not enough to convince himself to eat, but enough to give him some hope.

Despite all his maneuverings, it came down to fair match play. He hated that. After breakfast, he joined the entire population of the castle on the journey to the Quidditch pitch. Taking his seat in the stands, he settled in to watch the match.

It was brutal, every bit a brutal as he suspected it could be.

They lost.

Minerva's voice was full of gloating laughter as she said, "No less than three verses, Severus!" before she left the stands to join her team in celebrating victory on the pitch.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On the day of the Leaving Feast, Severus glared at Minerva, and after the award of the House Cup to Gryffindor – again – stood up and recited in a deadpan voice:

_Only one man has greatness that shines_  
Like the locks of his gilded hair  
And always dressed to the nines  
No other wizard so fair  
  
Such a wizard we have known  
Only a year in our company  
Yet such knowledge he has sown  
To grow like flowers, like peony  
  
This year has borne his fruit  
Gilded like his name  
And my praise is moot  
Much like his fame 

Severus returned to his seat, the hall filled with silence, that then blossomed into chatter, under which, he could hear Minerva stifling her cackling laughter.

He would get her next year.

 

 


End file.
